This "supernatural thriller" (according to the blurb on the cover) concerns a sort of a hapless Monty Python-esque rugby scrimmage over the possession of the Holy Grail. Two opposing teams of dry and bloodless English types (a minor Lord, a publishing clerk, an archdeacon, a retired business magnate, etc.) flail away in an attempt to obtain and employ the sacred chalice as they see fit, whether for beneficence or black magic.

The story opens, in the offices of a publishing house, with an unlikely and unsolved murder, and its mystery spreads and darkens, like blood on a shag carpet, to include all sorts of cranks and true believers - eventually, even, the spirit of Prester John - in a gray cape. The unedited proof of a book in the office/murder scene contains a paragraph which purports to locate the Holy Grail. The murder mystery then morphs into weird sport as the story centers on the Grail which is apparently as difficult to retain as a greased pig.

Williams, I'll concede, is a masterful writer, and can create a scene, spin a tale, and describe a mood. But I can't imagine who would be interested in the spiritual objectives and theological pondering of the novel's characters except for a few nerdy seminary students. For me, the experience was a combination Yawn in Heaven, Dan Brown dressed up in a stylish tuxedo, and a flashback to mandatory religious education classes. Frankly, I couldn't give a damn. ( )